


Bitten

by loves_books



Category: The A-Team (2010), The A-Team - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Blood, Halloween Challenge, Horror, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-21 10:48:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21298205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loves_books/pseuds/loves_books
Summary: It only takes one bite to change everything.
Relationships: Templeton "Faceman" Peck/John "Hannibal" Smith
Comments: 14
Kudos: 12





	Bitten

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Bitten](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2549012) by [loves_books](https://archiveofourown.org/users/loves_books/pseuds/loves_books). 

> A re-write of a story I originally wrote 5 years ago for the Lewis fandom, for their Halloween challenge.
> 
> Please note that I've chosen not to use archive warnings this time, so read on at your own risk.

The pain is unexpected, the sensation like nothing Face has ever felt before, and it takes him a long moment to register what’s happening. Teeth, sharp teeth sinking into the soft skin of his arm, biting deep. Not a dog but a man trying to get free, desperately trying to escape now he knows he has no chance of winning the fight. 

The bite hurts like hell, and Face gives in to the instinctive urge to swear loudly and just punches the man in the face with a growl, though the rebel still doesn’t let go. He ends up peeling the man off his arm instead, trying not to throw up at the throb of pain which shivers up his arm as those visibly dirty teeth are pulled out of his skin. He goes to take the man out with another punch but, but his attacker suddenly twists and kicks out, catching Face between the legs. The man is gone before a panting Hannibal finally arrives with back-up to find his lieutenant a bleeding and groaning heap on the floor.

After sending a group of soldiers after the fleeing rebel, Hannibal helps Face carefully to his feet, wincing as he sees the bloody wound on the inside of Face’s left forearm, near the delicate veins in his wrist. “You should get that seen to properly,” he orders immediately, and only Face could pick out the concern buried beneath the seemingly gruff voice. The older man’s hands are tender and gentle as he rolls Face’s shirt sleeve up past his elbow, exposing the injury fully. “You’ll need to get it cleaned and make sure your jabs are up to date. Don’t make me turn that into an order, kid.”

Ordinarily Face would protest. There’s still work to be done, after all, not least figuring out just how the man got into the camp in the first place, let alone understanding what he hoped to accomplish by targeting Face. But the bite really does hurt like hell, and the pain is more than a little distracting, and so after a token argument he lets BA bundle him into a van and drive him across the FOB to see the medics, so a nurse can clean and disinfect the wound. 

The skin around the bite is raw and red, deep bruising blossoming already, with the clear imprint of human teeth all in stark contrast to the deep tan of Face’s skin. No stitches are necessary in the end but he does get a whole series of injections, a thick padded dressing, and a bottle of pills to take away with him.

Face heads right back to the team’s tent when they finally let him out of the hospital, keeping his bandaged left arm close to his chest, and buries himself in Hannibal’s waiting arms, safe from watching eyes. He tries to ignore the constant throb which reminds him of the moment ragged teeth had sunk into the flesh of his arm, and for the most part, he succeeds.

Unfortunately, the rebel seems to have vanished into thin air, though there is still endless paperwork to be filed, and healing to be done, even after the team fly back to the States two days later. Face takes his antibiotics as ordered, and takes painkillers as necessary. He keeps the dressing clean and dry, wrapping it in cling-film in the shower, and visits the medics back at Benning to get it checked over a week later. The bite seems to be healing up just fine, the bruising already fading to yellows and greens instead of vivid black and blue, and the torn skin scabbing over just as it should. No sign of infection, and that should have been that.

It isn’t, though, not quite. Face knows something isn’t right, but for a long time he isn’t sure exactly what could be wrong. The skin on his left arm feels itchy and tight, but he tells himself that’s perfectly normal as it knits back together. It was a deep bite, after all, and the human mouth really is a filthy place.

They never catch the man who bit Face, the man they now suspect was planning to set a series of bombs within the FOB. But thankfully, since the man fled, there have been no new attacks, at least not in the same style. And the team are on down-time after several months of punishing missions. It should be easy to let it go. 

But Face has begun to find it hard to sleep at night since he was injured, which surprises him as he’s usually so exhausted when they do get home to the States that he’s out like a light the second his head hits the pillow, cradled safely in Hannibal’s arms. Now, he finds his brain buzzing long into the small hours of the morning, and the little rest he does manage to snatch is filled with broken images of shattered glass, and the sounds of echoing cries. And blood, red rivers of blood flowing from screaming yet faceless bodies. 

There is always blood now when Face dreams. So much blood.

Just a touch of insomnia, he tells himself. Not unexpected, and not the first time. It’s the stress of failing to catch the rebel, of the countless other minor traumas suffered during their last tour of duty – he tries not to think of PTSD, though the shadow of it is always around them, particularly with a best friend like Murdock. He just tries as well as he can to put it all out of his mind. It’s difficult, though; mornings have never been a particularly good friend to him, but now they are simply impossible without copious amounts of energy drinks and handfuls of caffeine pills, on top of his usual breakfast of very strong coffee.

Hannibal notices, of course he does – they sleep in the same bed, and when Face is awake Hannibal is normally awake too. He’s worried, and he comments frequently, tutting when Face reaches for yet another can of Monster. “There is such a thing as too much caffeine, y’know? Can’t have you shaking so hard you get jittery on the range, can we?” Typical Hannibal, Face thinks with a smile, burying his genuine concern beneath sarcasm and jokes.

So for Hannibal’s sake, he tries to cut down on the caffeine, just a little. Tries to haul his disturbed sleeping patterns back into some kind of normal rhythm, though his efforts seem to make no difference. And the skin of his left arm still itches, sensitive to every touch. The brush of his shirt against the healing skin there is almost unbearable at times.

When he stops to think about it, he realises that it’s not just his skin that has become overly sensitive. It’s just the lack of sleep, Face tells himself, scratching absently at his arm. That’s why the sun is always too bright, and why he wears his sunglasses almost all the time now. That’s why Hannibal’s voice is always a little too loud, and why Face has to try not flinch even when his lover speaks softly; in fact, almost all sounds are too loud for Face now, too sharp and piercing to his suddenly delicate ears. 

His sense of smell is too sensitive as well. He’s always loved the smell of coffee, but now those roasted beans are quite simply the most amazing, wonderful, heavenly scent in the whole entire world. On the other hand, Face has never been keen on the scent of lavender, and now the merest whiff makes him want to vomit. Or want to tear the hands off the woman sitting opposite him in the coffee shop near base, taking her time applying scented hand lotion.

Hmm, Face thinks distractedly as he imagines the blood dripping steadily from her severed limbs while he waits for Hannibal. That’s new.

He stops eating, more or less, though it takes him nearly two weeks to realise why Murdock is giving him funny looks every mealtime. He hasn’t lost much weight, and he’s still working out, so he figures it’s just one of those things. Even though they’re on downtime he’s still putting in the hours at the gym and the range, just as Hannibal is catching up on months of ignored paperwork, so things are surprisingly busy with lots of late nights and early mornings which really haven’t helped his broken sleep patterns. Face eats mechanically whenever there is food placed in front of him, and everything tastes of cardboard even though it might smell amazing. He just isn’t hungry. 

Not hungry for Murdock’s creative and usually-delicious cooking, at least. He finds he is craving something richer, thicker.

“You’ll waste away, kid.” Hannibal fusses over him, finally giving in to his concerns and trying to tempt him with what has always been Face’s favourite pasta, frowning when it gets pushed away after only a few bites. “I know you’re careful about your diet, and you look stunning, but I don’t just love you for your body, I hope you know that. You have to take care of yourself, or you’ll vanish on me altogether. And you’re far too important to me to just disappear.”

Face doesn’t eat more. He can’t, not even for Hannibal, but he doesn’t lose any weight either. That, on top of everything else, tells him something really isn’t right, and so he puts up little resistance when a worried Hannibal does finally order him to go back to the medics. He even lets the older man drive him to the appointment, thankful when Hannibal waits in the car rather than walking him in to the clinic.

The doctor examines him carefully, clearly a little concerned by the vague symptoms Face describes. He listens to Face’s heart and his breathing, and takes his blood pressure – all the readings are a little low, but apparently nothing to be overly worried about. He spends a long time examining the freshly healed bite mark on Face’s left arm, peering closely at the skin there. The bruising has long since gone, the scabs fallen away to reveal nothing but fresh pink skin, and there is no sign of infection. 

Face goes through the motions, obediently making a fist when asked, flexing his arm, reporting honestly that there is no pain. His skin still itches a little, but the doctor reassures him that’s natural as the bite is still healing beneath the surface. Face is probably just run down, the doctor decides, and perhaps has a cold coming on. Some blood is taken for testing, just in case, and Face is sent away with a few days’ worth of sleeping pills and an order to rest.

He has every intention of obeying, he really does. But for the rest of the day, and long into the night, all Face can focus on is the memory of the feeling as his blood pumped strongly from his body, flowing into the three tiny vials the doctor had filled. So red, so fresh. So alive.

The sleeping pills help, despite his initial reluctance to use them, sending him spiralling down deep into a dreamless sleep within minutes. Mornings are worse for a while, and Face sleeps on even as Hannibal tries to coax him into consciousness as waking becomes nearly impossible. Finally, with a little experimenting and Hannibal’s endless patience, Face finds a balance by taking only half a sleeping pill and having the strongest caffeine tablets he can find on hand when he surfaces groggily. He sleeps like the dead at night and forces himself back to life each morning, and it’s the closest he’s come in weeks to a regular sleeping pattern.

They should’ve gone back out into the field a month ago. They haven’t talked about it. They should.

He makes an appointment with the counselling team, then cancels it. He can fool himself into thinking he’s getting better, but he isn’t fooling Hannibal, not for a single second. “You look like death warmed up, Face,” his lover frets, stroking his hair softly as they lie in bed together. “Not a scrap of colour in your cheeks. I’d swear you look like you’ve seen a ghost, you’re that pale. You need to get some sun, and get some proper rest. Take a proper holiday, maybe. We could go away somewhere together, just you and me.”

Perhaps he should. Everything is slowly becoming too much, and now, when Face is lying in Hannibal’s arms, Face could almost swear he can hear the blood rushing in the older man’s veins. It can’t be, of course. No one human could hear another man’s pulse. It has to be his own heartbeat he can hear, not Hannibal’s, a steady thump-thump. 

He can’t smell the other man’s blood, either, of course. No, that’s just his imagination. 

Face sees blood everywhere he looks now, and of course work only makes that worse when they do finally return to active duty, back in Afghanistan. Each time they are in battle, big or small, the sight and the smell of it is almost overwhelming, and he has to force himself to listen as Hannibal issues orders, ignoring the way he can hear his heart pumping strongly, and ignoring the distracting thump-thump-thump of BA’s pulse and Murdock’s pulse close by his side. He can only try not to stare at the beautiful red pattern splattered on the ground, drained from the lifeless corpses. 

More than anything, Face just wishes the blood didn’t smell so damn good.

“Sharp eyes, kid,” Hannibal compliments him one time, shaking his head in amazement after Face spots an impossibly tiny trail of blood flecks before they’d even had a chance to start searching for the last of the terrorists fleeing the scene. The trail had led them to take the last men prisoner, ready to be interrogated, and ultimately leading to several further potential attacks being foiled, saving countless lives. “That’s good work, even with those silly dark sunglasses of yours on. I’m impressed.”

Face just shrugs, wishing he could tell Hannibal the horror he’d felt when he realised he wanted to chase after that trail until he’d found the source of it. How he’d been able to hear the wounded men’s pulses beating slower and slower as the seconds passed, calling to him. Beckoning him closer. 

He thinks he knows, now, what he is becoming. He knows what is happening to him. It scares him, yet excites him at the same time. 

He’s done his research. He’s familiar with all the legends, now, and understands the history. Far back before Dracula, there was Lilith. Tales of the Vetalas from India, of the Lilitu from Babylonia, the Empusae and Lamiae from Ancient Greece and Ancient Rome. Mythology from Eastern Europe, particularly the stories about Vlad Terpes, right through to the current obsession fuelled by films starring handsome teenage boys with sharp teeth and glowing skin. Stories, all of them. Tales, rumours, and myths. Nothing more than that.

And yet.

This want, this need, this lust – it courses through his veins like electricity. He doesn’t know how long his self-control can last.

And when their latest tour is over and they are once more back in the States, when he sits by Hannibal’s side on their battered old couch, listening to the steady thump-thump-thump of that strong heart rather than the soft music playing in the background, picturing the bright blood rushing through miles of veins and arteries rather than taking in the room around him, imagining the taste of that rich blood rather than the tasteless beer he sips automatically – when he sits pressed against Hannibal’s side as he has done a thousand times before, he knows his control is nearly gone.

All he wants to do is to lean closer, to tilt Hannibal’s head back, to bare his teeth – 

To bite down.

To drink his fill.

Horrified, Face makes his excuses quickly and leaves the room in a daze, then the house, stumbling out into the night along pavements filled with people who have suddenly become little more than walking bags of blood to him. He feels the urge to taste, to bite, but he can’t, he won’t, he mustn’t – 

When he eventually returns to their tiny home in the early hours of the morning, Hannibal is gone, presumably out looking for him. Face hadn’t taken his phone, of course. But Face doesn’t pause. Instead, he packs a bag, shoving in haphazard handfuls of clothing and snatching up a few random books. Only on the way back out does he pause, turning back to take one last look at the home they’ve made together. He’ll miss it, but he can’t stay, can’t risk it. He leaves as fast as he can.

He doesn’t bother locking the door behind himself. He isn’t coming back.

Face drives hard and fast for the rest of the night and most of the next day, fear keeping him awake and moving as the sun burns high above him. Eventually, as the sun begins to sink on the second day, he finds himself a deserted cabin of sorts, little more than a shed really, and he cowers in the blessed darkness there, whispering prayers to a God he is no longer sure exists.

He thinks for one brief, beautiful moment about ending it all. He brought his gun with him after all, and he has a knife too. So many ways in which he could spill his own blood, and that might be an end to it – perhaps that would even stop this craving of his, this need he knows he can’t fight much longer.

But with a bitter laugh, Face buries his head in his hands, knowing he won’t do it. He could never do it. He may no longer be as certain of his faith as he used to be, but some teachings are too deeply ingrained to ever be broken. He won’t take his own life, but he refuses to be a threat to anyone else either. What can he do?

He’s still sitting, frozen, in the same position two days later when Hannibal somehow finds him. Face can hear his approach long before he reaches the door, hearing the familiar thump-thump-thump of that always strong and steady heart, the rhythm calling out to Face until he has to bite down on his own fist to stop himself running out to meet the other man.

Perhaps Hannibal will leave. Perhaps he doesn’t know Face is there. Perhaps – 

Perhaps not.

“Oh Face, sweetheart, look at you.” Hannibal looms large in the doorway as Face hisses in sudden pain at the too-bright sunshine spilling into his shadowy nest. “Thank goodness I’ve found you. Whatever’s wrong, whatever it is that’s upset you, I’m here now. I’ll help you, I promise. Everything will be okay.”

“You shouldn’t’ve come,” Face manages to rasp out, his eyes screwed tightly shut, hands clenched into fists in an attempt to stay still. He grits his teeth, trying to lock his jaw. It takes almost all his strength.

“You gave me such a scare,” Hannibal continues softly, taking a slow step forwards into the room. “Disappearing on me the way you did. Didn’t you think I’d be worried about you? Don’t you know by now just how important you are to me?”

Face can hear the honest worry and affection in the older man’s voice, though it’s hard to focus on that over the constant thump-thump-thump-thump. Faster now, that familiar heartbeat, rich blood racing fast beneath thin skin, so close now, so very close – 

“You shouldn’t have come,” he bites out, choking on a sob. “You have to go, now. Please, Hannibal, leave me here. Just go, please go…”

He’s crying now, helpless as the other man kneels down in front of him. “Oh, my love,” Hannibal murmurs softly, one hand reaching out to rest gently on Face’s bowed head, almost in benediction. “Oh kid, you’ve got no idea. I couldn’t let you go, not like that. We’ll fix it, I promise, whatever it is. Come here, now.”

And Face finds himself tugged forwards into a strong embrace, his head guided in to shelter against Hannibal’s neck, shielding him from that burning sunshine. He has no strength left to resist, and no desire any longer to stop himself as that strong pulse is suddenly right there, calling to him. On offer for him and him alone.

“I’m so sorry,” Face whispers through his tears, as a strange numbness descends on him. All around there is nothing but that thump-thump-thump, and the rush of tempting blood.

So close now. So very close.

And he opens his mouth, breathes deeply one last time. And he bites.


End file.
